


hand in unlovable hand

by procrastibaker



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, sad hockey playing teenagers trying to have their shit together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastibaker/pseuds/procrastibaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he sits next to Jack on roadies, bumping their shoulders together amicably as Jack chews on his lip and stares out the window at the passing scenery. He leans into every casual touch - Jack’s gloved hand on his back, their skates knocking together on the bench. Seeks him out on the ice, feeling a thrill when their passes connect effortlessly; slams him into the boards after game-winning goals, their teammates piling up around them but it’s Kent’s fist clutching the back of Jack’s jersey, Kent’s voice yelling in Jack’s ear.</p><p>If Jack notices, he doesn’t say anything.</p><p>Kent still hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hand in unlovable hand

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing fanfiction or really anything that's not an analytical/research paper and i was v nervous to post, but a big shout out to the friendly folks over at the chat for reassuring me and betaing!
> 
> content warnings for anxiety, alcohol/drug use, and mild dubcon (kissing without asking)
> 
> title from "no children" by the mountain goats:  
>  _I am drowning, there is no sign of land_  
>  _you are coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand_

When they first meet, Kent’s exhausted from two days’ worth of travelling and one night spent lying awake, fraught with nerves, in a shitty motel in the outskirts of Montréal. He’s being dragged around, introduced to various people by his mom, and he feels like he’s in kindergarten again. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from snapping at her. He knows it’ll be a while before he sees her again - the ten-hour trip isn’t an easy one, and she doesn’t get a lot of vacation days.

After what feels like the millionth introduction (names he’s forgotten already, but he’s tired and he’s got two years to figure this out, so he’s not concerned that he’s spacing a little bit now), his mom gasps and tugs at his wrist. “Honey, oh my god, look! That’s Alicia Zimmermann! Katie’s going to be so jealous!”

Kent turns around and sure enough there’s an actress that he vaguely recognizes standing a few feet away, her hand resting on the shoulder of a tall boy with shaggy dark hair who also looks familiar.

“Kenny, let’s go say hi,” his mom says, and Kent starts to protest, but she’s already firmly guiding him over.

They make the requisite introductions - the boy's name is Jack, Kent learns - and Kent spaces out on his mom's excited chattering while trying to figure out why Jack looks so familiar. There's something about the droopy eyes, the angular face that's pulling at something in his memory, an image of a weird-looking baby sitting in the Stanley Cup.

"Holy shit, you're Bad Bob Zimmermann's kid," Kent exclaims, and Kent’s mom is staring daggers at him because he apparently interrupted some important conversation, but Kent doesn’t miss the way Jack’s jaw tightens, the way his glare sharpens.

Kent’s mom clearly notices, too, because she says, a little too brightly, “well, it was great meeting you two, but we’ve got to get going!”

“Lovely meeting you, too,” says Alicia, her arm tight around Jack’s shoulder. As he walks away, Kent glances back, sees Jack’s hands balling into fists at his sides.

 

___

 

They spend the night in Kent’s billet family’s house: Kent in what’s going to be his room for the next two years, his mom in the guest room. He finds he can't sleep, despite his fatigue, so instead of lying in bed staring at the ceiling, Kent walks around his new room, running his fingers over the walls and furniture, hoping he'll tire himself out.

The room’s large but plain, and doesn’t have a lot of personality, and Kent can plaster the walls with pictures from home—his family, the lake, his youth hockey team—but the last time Kent had a room to himself was before Katie was born and it feels empty without her there. He wonders idly if he can get an mp3 of someone snoring on his iPod, because he doesn’t think he can get to sleep without it.

Eventually, he feels his eyes start to droop and he gets back into bed. He sleeps, but it’s not great, and when his mom wakes him up the next morning he feels like he was unconscious for maybe two hours, tops. 

She’s heading back to Rochester today. She spent the morning talking to the billet family, reminding them to make sure Kent feeds himself and stays at least a little bit clean, and Kent feels a pull of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Kent and his sister, they’re all their mother has, and, well. He worries.

“Just, drive safe, okay? Pull over if you feel sleepy, and text me when you get to the motel.”

“Oh, hush. I’ll be fine. Take care of yourself, Kenny.”

Kenny stands on the front stoop of his new home and watches his mom pull away, the last shred of familiarity heading southwest. 

He waits a few minutes, then takes a deep breath and goes back inside.

The rest of the day is a blur, doing bonding activities with his billet family, being driven around Rimouski and butchering his way through some basic French lessons. They have dinner together, and they make Kent’s favorite dish. Kent is gratified to see the pains they’re taking to make him feel welcome.

The next day is the first day of training camp, though, and Kent spends a third restless night trying to stop his overactive mind from dwelling on everything that could possibly go wrong.

 

___

 

The coaches arranged a more formal meet-and-greet-slash-breakfast at the rink before practice is supposed to start, and this time Kent has to look everyone in the eye and remember their names. It’s not an ideal situation; Kent is itching to start skating. He’s standing awkwardly by the buffet table, eating a croissant, when the angry-looking boy from yesterday walks over, looking much more hesitant now. "Kent, right? I'm Jack. We met yesterday." 

“Mmph,” Kent says, hastily swallowing his pastry. "Jack, yeah." Kent forgot a lot of names, but he didn't forget Jack's.

"I feel like I didn't make that great of an impression yesterday," Jack says, and Kent's surprised to hear that his accent is a little stronger than he expected, the _th_ s softening into _d_ s.

Jack’s staring at him, and Kent realizes that he's expecting a response, so he just shrugs.

"I'm just, I'm more than the name on my jersey, you know,” Jack says, voice rising at the end like it’s a question and he sounds so earnest, Kent kind of wants to hug him. “I just want to play hockey without everyone comparing me to my dad, and I get a little frustrated sometimes. So I wanted to apologize for taking that out on you.”

Kent’s instinct is to hold a grudge, but Jack looks so hopeful, and Kent knows what it’s like to feel that pressure, even if it’s just pressure to support his family and not pressure from an entire country.

So he tries out a smile and holds out his fist. “Friends?”

Jack’s smile is small, but it’s surprisingly radiant, and he returns the fist bump. “Friends.”

 

___

 

Kent knows that Jack's good - even if he didn't recognize him at first, of course he knows that he went first in the QMJHL entry draft - but watching him play, it's like the real deal. He’s so awkward and gangly off the ice, very clearly uncomfortable in his own skin, but he skates like a hockey playing angel, sent down from heaven to gift Océanic with his soft hands and his soft hair.

(Sometimes, Kent catches himself staring at Jack in the locker room for just a little bit too long. He finds that there’s something he likes about the lines of his arms, the slope of his nose. He doesn’t know what to do with this new information.)

Kent’s always had a competitive streak in him and yeah, he’s pretty good at hockey, but Jack’s easily better and Kent’s not even annoyed. Jack’s quick, and he thinks fast, and he skates like his blades and stick are extensions of his body.

Playing with him is even more incredible. When they’re placed on a line together during the first few days of camp - Jack in center, Kent on the left wing - they click immediately, and it’s clear that when he’s on the ice with Jack, Kent’s just so much better. It’s like his senses are heightened, and he always knows where the puck is, and where Jack is, and during scrimmages Kent passes to Jack without even having to look and Jack just drives it into the back of the net easily. As they’re perfecting their cellies, Kent sees the coaches grin at each other, and he knows they’ve got something really special.

They're getting along off the ice, too. Their billets are just a couple blocks away from each other, so they've been carpooling to practice in Jack's pickup truck that he drove up from Montréal, along with one of the other rookies, a D-man named Weber. (Kent’s determined to nickname him Spidey despite Weber’s notorious arachnophobia. It hasn’t stuck, yet.) Kent’s discovered that Jack’s not the aloof, angry asshole that Kent initially thought he was. When Jack loosens up, he’s actually hilarious, chirping their teammates with witty, dry remarks that always make Kent snort. Jack somehow gets along with everyone, which is surprising, considering his quiet demeanor.

There’s something else with Kent, though. He’s never had this much chemistry with a liney before. It’s not like he had a problem with them, but his relationships with his previous teammates were - kind of strained, and he didn’t really hang with them outside of practice and the occasional team dinner.

With Jack, though—they’ve been hanging out a lot, playing video games for an obscenely long time when they should be studying, and Kent realizes that Jack just gets him. Like, a forward is obviously supposed to understand his liney, know his speed and and the strength of his slap shot and where he’s going to be on the ice, but Jack can straight up read Kent both on and off the ice, and it’s a little unnerving.

Maybe it’s Jack’s reticence, his quietness, but he seems to be extremely skilled at observation. Kent’s not the most emotionally accessible guy; he doesn’t subscribe to the whole talking-about-feelings thing. Still, Jack always seems to know what he’s thinking, and he always knows just what to say or do to make him feel better. Sometimes it’s just leaving Kent alone, and he’s infinitely grateful.

Jack’s a little harder to read—he gets weirdly closed off and blank sometimes—but Kent feels like he understands him just a little better than he’s ever understood anyone. Back in Rochester, in science class, Kent learned about how objects moving at the same frequency can resonate with and amplify each other. Kent feels like he and Jack are moving at the same frequency, and as they move through training camp and draw closer to the beginning of the season, Kent feels that the amplification only increases.

Right as they’re about to skate out for their home opener, Jack leans into Kent’s space. “Let’s light it up, eh?” His voice is quiet, but he’s so close that it’s audible over the already deafening roar of the arena, and his eyes are glinting.

“You know it,” Kent says, and bumps his glove on Jack’s chest, and tries to ignore the question of whether that feeling in his stomach is nerves or butterflies.

It’s by far the biggest crowd Kent’s ever played in front of, and it’s a little overwhelming. Of course the coaches prepped them for this, but to skate out in front of what has to be at least a thousand people—Kent’s legs feel a little wobbly, and he’s almost afraid he’s going to trip. During warm-ups, though, Kent feels himself again, revelling in the cheers of the crowd. As he passes Jack, he catches his eye, and Jack’s grin is huge.

Jack’s smile is always most genuine when he’s skating.

In the end, they each get a goal and an assist, and they win the game five to one, and they skate off the ice with their arms around each other, supporting each other’s weight, and Kent feels delirious.

They spend the night at Porter’s house, glued to each other’s sides, drinking until they collapse on the futon together, almost cuddling. Kent buries his head in Jack’s arm and thinks he’s never been this happy in his life.

 

___

 

Jack offers to take Kent home to Montréal for Christmas, and of course Kent says yes. He wouldn’t have been able to make it down to Rochester anyway, and as welcoming as they are, he doesn’t really want to stay with his billet for the holidays.

He feels a bit guilty at first, but when he calls his mom to tell her, she sounds thrilled. “I’m just so glad you’re making friends!”

“Mo-ooom,” Kent groans, but he’s laughing, too.

Kent’s packing when, an hour before they’re supposed to leave, Jack calls. “You’re bringing your skates, right?”

Kent snorts. “We get a week off from practice and you still want to play?”

“Are you really going to say no to pond hockey?”

Kent grins. He’ll admit he misses playing hockey just for the fun of it, the feeling of the icy air stinging his cheeks. “Of course not.” Kent idly wonders if Jack could get his dad to play shinny with them, but he knows better than to ask.

“Pick you up at eleven?”

“See you then.”

 

___

 

The drive to Montréal is five hours, and Jack insists on driving the whole way (“I’m from Québec, so I know it better than you”) and commandeering the radio (“I’m the one driving, so I should be able to listen to the music I like, eh?”). For some reason, he chooses a country music station. Kent is very confused as to why Québec has one of those, but he figures if Jack likes it, it can’t be too bad.

Kent is wrong. Holy shit, it’s so bad. He wants to claw his brains out after half an hour.

When they get to a rest stop (“halte routière,” as Jack calls it, in his endless, fruitless quest to get Kent to learn French), Jack goes to use the bathroom and Kent surreptitiously changes the channel. Everything’s in French, but Kent finds a station that sounds appropriately punk enough for him.

When Jack gets into the car, Kent’s giggling and Jack clearly pretends not to notice, but when Kent is lulled to sleep by the steady movement of the truck, Jack switches the station to country music again and turns the volume up as high as it goes. Kent wakes up yelling, steel guitar ringing in his ears.

Jack’s laughing so hard he has to pull over.

 

___

 

Kent’s a bit intimidated that he’s in the same house as Bad Bob Zimmermann (and Alicia Zimmermann, too; a phone call from Katie thoroughly educated Kent on her importance in the current zeitgeist), but his almost ridiculously stereotypical Canadian politeness is enough to put Kent at ease.

Jack said pond hockey, but apparently what he meant was outdoor hockey on the rink in his _fucking backyard_. Kent’s incredulous, and Jack smiles sheepishly and apologizes, but Kent laughs and says, “no, are you kidding me, this is amazing!”

They manage to drag Bob out to play goalie ( _the_ Bad Bob Zimmermann, okay, maybe Kent’s still a little intimidated), and they try ridiculous trick shots that mostly just end up with the puck buried in the snow somewhere far away and the two of them in hysterics. Kent wants to take a snapshot of this moment so he can come back to relive it anytime.

 

___

 

On New Year’s, it’s just the two of them.

Alicia had offered to take them along to the party she and Bob were going to—“it’s at my friend Nathalie’s house, and I’m not sure if you boys would like it but of course you can come,”—and Kent wants to say yes, mingle with hockey legends for the night, but he can tell by the set of Jack’s mouth that it’s the last thing he wants to do, so he politely declines.

They take the truck out—there’ll be fireworks over the river at midnight, and Jack knows of a park close by where they’ll have a good view of them. It’s an unseasonably warm night, so they sit on the hood of the truck, trading swigs from a bottle of cheap vodka that Kent got from one of the older boys on the team.

After his second gulp, the alcohol burning on the way down, Kent says, “you should come to Rochester this summer. Come visit me.”

Jack tilts his head, considers. “Should I?”

“Yeah!” Kent’s warming to the idea. “We could get garbage plates—they’re like poutine, but so much better.”

Jack splutters. “Blasphemy!”

“Imagine poutine, but, like, ten times fattier and Americaner.”

“English isn’t my first language, but I’m pretty sure that’s not a word.” Jack takes another swig and grimaces. “God, what is this? It tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

“I got it from Porter!” Kent grins. “Gross, right? It was the cheapest vodka at the SAQ.”

“Yuck,” Jack says, but takes another sip anyway.

Kent swings his leg, knocks it against the grill of the truck. "So, uh. Do you know what you're doing this summer?"

Jack shoots Kent a glance. "A little early for that, eh?"

"Maybe, but you've showed me your hometown, so now I can't wait for you to see how much better mine is."

Jack laughs, a short, quiet "hah" that's ridiculously endearing. "Sure. Well, uh. I typically spend the summer training, and I help out with this kids' hockey camp sometimes, but I could definitely make the time to come down. I think."

Kent feels warm inside, and it's not just from the alcohol. "You know you can't just work out all summer, right? You've gotta do summery things, like, I dunno, eating funnel cakes and shit."

"And garbage, apparently."

"It's a garbage _plate,_ excuse you. But, uh, I'm glad you can come down. I'm really looking forward to it." Kent cringes at how sincere and formal he sounds, but it’s the truth.

Lately, Kent’s been feeling this ache in his chest when he’s around Jack, this feeling that no matter how much time they spend together, no matter how close they get, Kent will always want more. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling, but it’s not pleasant either. It’s just sort of foreign. And it does hurt, sometimes, but in a good way? Kent’s confused.

“Oh, shit, it’s almost midnight already,” Jack says, glancing at his watch.

They count down, and then it’s 2008 and the fireworks are probably magnificent, but Kent’s just focused on the way they’re lighting up Jack’s profile, the reds and greens and blues dancing across his skin. Kent was fine with his purely aesthetic attraction to Jack, but now, in the just-below-freezing temperatures of mid-winter Québec, beneath the light of the New Year’s celebrations and the full moon, it feels like something more. Kent’s mouth goes dry. He’s heard it said that the person you spend New Year’s with will be with you throughout the rest of the year, and he can’t help feeling glad he’s with Jack right now.

Eventually, he sees that Jack's mouth is moving, and he snaps out of his reverie.

"—go back? It's getting chilly," Jack is saying.

"I thought Canadians were impervious to the cold," Kent chirps, but he manages to tear his eyes away from Jack's face and hops off the hood.

They’ve both drunk too much to drive back home, so they leave the truck and resolve to get it in the morning. On the walk back, Kent swings his arms and counts the times his fingers intertwine, momentarily, with Jack’s.

(It's six. Six times.)

 

___

 

Kent's style of packing is typically just stuff everything in a duffle bag and hope for the best, but he seems to have misjudged a little, because with all his clothes and the ridiculous number of tupperware containers Alicia is sending back with them, there’s no room for his skates, and they’re kind of muddy and gross from trudging through the snow so he doesn’t want to just carry them. 

Kent figures he can borrow a bag from Jack—no doubt he’s got plenty of extra gear bags. The Zimmermanns’ house is large and almost labyrinthine, but Jack’s most likely in his room, packing up his stuff, so he goes upstairs, trying to remember the way—left, then right, at the end of the hall.

The door is just ajar and Kent can hear two voices from in the room—Bob and Jack—and Jack sounds angry, but they’re speaking French. Despite taking French in school and living in Québec for three months, he doesn't know how to say much besides "hello," "my name is Kent," and "where is the library," and they're speaking really rapidly anyway, but there are a few words Kent can pick out.

"Hockey" is one. (It sort of sounds like "okay;" that's a word that Kent sort of has to know. Mostly everyone in Rimouski speaks English, but for those who don’t, Kent gestures at himself and says “le hockey” and people seem to understand.)

"Anxiété" is another.

Bob's standing with his back to the door, but Jack's angled so that Kent can see his face, and he's. It looks like he's trembling. Kent's never seen this expression on Jack's face before: one of simultaneous defiance and defeat, and so, so terrified.

Kent's breath catches in his throat when he sees Bob gently take Jack's hand and then sees Jack rip it away, and he wishes he knew what was going on. He also realizes, belatedly, that he shouldn't be eavesdropping even if he can't understand the language. Jack's eyes are darting around like he's looking for an escape, and when he meets Kent's gaze, Kent almost flinches from the intensity.

Jack storms past Kent with barely a look and says, "we're leaving." It's almost a growl.

"I. Uh. Okay," Kent stutters, at a loss. "I'm so sorry, Jack, I—"

"Go put your stuff in the car." Jack's words are resigned, clipped. Behind them, Bob is standing in the doorway, and he looks devastated.

Kent figures he'll just carry his skates.

 

___

 

In the car, Kent looks over, studies the tightness of Jack's jaw, the way his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

The car ride back to Rimouski is considerably more subdued than the ride down. There's no country music, for one.

 

___

 

Kent knows it’s a bad idea. Jack is a hurricane, spiraling out of control. On the ice, they’re in the eye; Jack is focused, intent. Calm, even. Off the ice, though.

Kent’s not stupid. He hears the rattling of pills in Jack’s equipment bag. He sees the way Jack’s hands shake after a loss, knows that Jack blames himself for every botched play and missed pass, that he bears the weight and the expectations of a country on his back. Kent knows what happens with that kind of pressure. Eventually, cracks form, and it’s not pretty.

In Jack’s case, he might have already started to splinter.

Kent wants to fix him but he’s fucked up, too; he’s only human.

Kent knows it’s a bad idea, but he’s seventeen and in love, and bad ideas come with the territory.

So he sits next to Jack on roadies, bumping their shoulders together amicably as Jack chews on his lip and stares out the window at the passing scenery. He leans into every casual touch—Jack’s gloved hand on his back, their skates knocking together on the bench. Seeks him out on the ice, feeling a thrill when their passes connect effortlessly; slams him into the boards after game-winning goals, their teammates piling up around them but it’s Kent’s fist clutching the back of Jack’s jersey, Kent’s voice yelling in Jack’s ear.

If Jack notices, he doesn’t say anything.

Kent still hopes.

 

___

 

Kent’s just shared half a joint with Weber and he’s feeling pleasantly buzzed. Loose enough that he’ll allow himself to throw his arm around Jack, allow himself the rush that he gets when they’re close, but Jack isn’t anywhere to be found. Kent does some sleuthing and finds out from Bergy that Jack left to walk home five minutes ago. “Was tired, I guess. Dude practically won the game for us.”

Jack lives a few blocks away, and Kent figures he can catch him before he gets back to his billet family. Kent wants to congratulate him on his hatty; Kent also just _wants_ , but that feeling is new and unfamiliar and Kent sets it aside, pushes it to the back of his mind like he's been doing for months.

It’s the middle of February and the ground is coated with a thick layer of snow, giving everything an eerie, purplish-orange glow even though it’s almost one in the morning. As he trudges down the middle of the suburban street, the sounds of the party—celebrating Rimouski’s clinching of a playoff berth—fade away and Kent’s struck by how deafeningly quiet this sleepy town is. It reminds him of New York, and Kent feels a twinge of homesickness all of a sudden.

Sure, he’s having a great time in the Q. He fucking loves playing hockey, and it’s pretty great that he’s already considered a top prospect in a draft that’s more than a year away. He gets to have a career doing what he loves, and he’ll be payed millions for it, and that’s amazing. He’s not denying that. The thought of getting to buy his mom a huge house somewhere warm and beautiful, where she’ll never have to deal with people’s shit again—well, that’s pretty exciting, too.

But he misses home a lot, misses the simplicity of it, the routine of hockey practice, then school, then his job at the hardware store, then home to mess around with Katie, prepare dinner, do homework, and go to sleep early just to wake up and do it all again. He misses getting to see his family everyday, the way he and his sister managed to cheer up their mom, weary from a twelve hour workday, by just existing.

Plus, there’s the fact that at home, he’d never even had a crush on anyone, and now here he is, maybe sort of probably in love, and it’s really fucking scary. Kent’s an independent guy. Not that he enjoys being alone, or anything, but he doesn’t like to rely on other people to feel happy. Of course he loves his family, but at home he felt more untethered. This ache he feels to be close to Jack is—it’s terrifying, honestly.

Kent is rounding the corner on the block of Jack’s house and debating whether he should throw a snowball at Jack’s window when he sees something out of the corner of his eye and something’s wrong because that’s definitely Jack, sitting on the curb with his head in his hands and he’s shaking erratically and, shit, is he crying?

Kent takes a few tentative steps forward. “Zimms?” he says, but Jack doesn’t even look up, so Kent just goes and sits next to him, knees close to his chest.

After a minute of silence that Kent can’t bear, he says, quietly, “nice hat trick, Zimmermann.”

Jack’s head shoots up as if he’s only just realized Kent was there, and he’s gazing off somewhere to the right of Kent’s face, his eyes hard.

“Anderson almost had a shutout. I was right there. I could have stopped that goal.” Jack almost spits the words out between gritted teeth. “Tabarnak, j’ai—I fucked up.”

“C’mon, Zimms, loosen up, it’s just one game,” Kent says, and immediately wishes he could take it back, because Jack’s jaw clenches even more and he looks away.  
Kent has never been good at being comforting, but he’s also never felt even remotely this strongly about anyone who’s not his mom or his baby sister, and he wants to help but has no clue what to do. All he knows is that he wants to hold Jack until the tension in his shoulders dissolves. Kiss the scowl off his face.

Shit.

He takes a deep breath and tries again. “Jack,” Kent says, and sees him startle at the use of his first name. “Look at me. You know you weren’t the only one on the ice, right? You did a fucking amazing job tonight, like, man, that wrap-around shot was unbelievable, and anyway save percentages and goal differentials and all those numbers don’t mean shit if we won,” which isn’t entirely true but Kent’ll say anything to get rid of that terrified look in Jack’s eyes, like he’s about to be run over by an eighteen-wheeler. At least he’s looking at Kent now. That’s a good sign.

Kent takes a chance and puts his hand on Jack’s back, thumb rubbing circles into his shoulder blade, which is maybe just outside the realm of what’s acceptable between bros but Jack’s still shaking and suddenly Kent realizes that what he’d mistaken for heaving sobs earlier were actually Jack struggling to breathe, and shit he’s having a panic attack.

They’re roommates on roadies, so of course Kent hears Jack’s heavy breathing from behind the locked door of the bathroom, sees the redness of his eyes when he finally gets back to his bed. Kent can deny it all he wants—he can excuse it as Jack jerking off, use that to fuel wildly inappropriate fantasies that a teenage boy shouldn’t have about his best friend—but he knows there’s a reason Jack doesn’t want to talk on those nights, a reason he goes right to bed and doesn’t stay up late with Kent like usual, making fun of the weird local Québec channels on the grainy TV.

Now that he’s sitting right next to him, hand on his back, no bathroom door separating them, it’s within Kent’s power to help him, so he racks his brain for anything he learned about anxiety in his health class back in high school. Breathing. Right. Get him to breathe.

“Jack, listen to me. You have to breathe, okay?” Jack’s hand migrates to Kent’s knee like he’s trying to anchor himself to the Earth. “I’m going to count to eight, and you’re going to breathe out with me, okay?”

Jack nods, almost imperceptibly.

They sit there for a while, Kent counting, his hand still on Jack’s back. Eventually, Jack stops shaking, and it sounds like he’s almost breathing normally again.

“Kent,” says Jack. “Thank you.” His hand on Kent’s leg is so tight Kent is afraid he’s going to have to get his calf amputated.

“Any time, man.” Kent’s vaguely uncomfortable and he doesn’t know why. It’s been a weird night, and as much as he wants to stay here, maintain the points of contact that he has with Jack, he also wants to go home and lie in bed and regret all the stupid decisions he made in life that led him to fall in love with an anxious straight boy.

“Kenny,” Jack says slowly, like he’s tasting the way the word feels in his mouth. Jack exhales, and his breath forms a small cloud, right in front of Kent’s face. When did they get so close?

“Zimms, what-”

“Kenny,” Jack says again, but this time it’s a whisper across Kent’s lips, and Kent stops talking because Jack is. Jack is kissing Kent? The hand that was on Kent’s knee has slid up his thigh, and Jack’s other hand slips past Kent’s jawline on its way to the nape of his neck, and Jack’s lips are cold but warming up, and—this is all Kent’s dreamed of for months, and he feels like he’s on fire, but he’s also—he’s frozen, somehow, unable to move or reciprocate or wrap Jack up in his arms like he wants to. It’s a panic response, he thinks briefly, like Jack’s panic attack, but instead of fight-or-flight it’s just - freeze.

It feels like an eternity, but in reality it’s probably only a couple seconds later that Jack pulls back, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

“Uh. I,” Jack says, stumbling over his words. “I. Sorry.” He stands up so fast Kent’s afraid he’s going to topple over.

Kent wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say, and even if he did the words probably wouldn’t make it past the lump in his throat.

Jack’s already halfway to his door anyway.

 

___

 

Kent doesn’t know how he got home, but it’s almost three am by the time he plops down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

He’d thought this was just history repeating itself, another cliché: closeted gay boy falls for straight best friend, harbors unrealistic hopes, hates self. He can do that. As pathetic as it sounds, he’s used to it.

This is new, though. This—Kent isn’t equipped to deal with whatever this is. All he can do is speculate wildly: Is Jack gay? Was it just a weird, drunken experiment? Kent hadn’t tasted alcohol on his lips, but the kiss was so brief, he might have missed it. Why did Kent freeze? Would Jack have continued if Kent had reciprocated?

Kent’s not a fan of dwelling on what-ifs, but sometimes it just happens, and his mind won’t let it go.

He flips over on his bed and yells into his pillow until his eyes water.

 

___

 

The next day, when Jack picks Kent up for morning skate, Weber’s already in the car, sitting in the front seat where Kent usually sits. When Kent climbs into the back seat, Jack says nothing, stares straight ahead.

Everyone’s pretty hungover at practice, but the coaches are pretty forgiving, considering last night was a pretty important victory. Jack, however, seems so much worse for the wear than usual. He’s got enormous dark circles under his eyes as if he hasn’t slept in days, all his shots are going wide, and, probably worst of all, he won't even look at Kent.

After practice, the zamboni comes on the ice, hot water erasing the scratches and skate lines on the surface.

After practice, Kent takes a shower, turns the temperature up as hot as it'll go, and wishes the scalding water would erase him.

 

___

 

This time, Kent snags the front seat. Jack sighs, an almost inaudible exhale, but he says nothing and drops Weber off first.

When Jack pulls up in front of Kent's house, Kent reaches for the door handle, but then pulls his hand back. "What was that last night?" he asks, at the same time as Jack says, "we should talk."

Kent shudders. "Ugh. I hate that sentence. Good things never follow it."

"I," Jack says, swallowing. "I have anxiety."

"No shit."

"Fuck you."

If Kent had a superpower, it would be the ability to always say the wrong thing.

"Shit, man, I'm sorry, I know this is serious. I'll be quiet." Kent runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit he’s developed since it grew longer. It froze the moment he stepped outside, still wet from the shower, but it seems to be thawing now.

“I just. I was having a panic attack, and everything felt sort of, like, unreal, and I guess I sort of lost my mind a little, and then I just, I kissed you, and that wasn’t okay.” Jack’s voice drops to almost a whisper at the end, there. He still hasn’t looked at Kent.

“It’s cool, man. I mean, definitely ask first before kissing, but, like, I get it. Anxiety’s tough.”

“Do you—” 

“No,” Kent says, a little too quickly. “But I know it’s hard.”

Jack’s eyebrows unknit, and Kent can see him controlling his breathing, and he feels a rush of affection for him, despite the confusing mix of annoyance and trepidation swirling inside him.

The question he wants to ask— _why_ did you kiss me, are you attracted to me, _please_ —is stuck somewhere between his heart and his larynx.

“Did you, I mean, are you, uh. Fuck,” Kent says instead, eloquently.

“What,” Jack says. He turns to look at Kent, _finally_. His eyes, god—Kent wants to melt into them. “I’m sorry about the kiss, if that’s what you’re asking? It was stupid and thoughtless and it meant nothing.”

Kent feels his stomach lurch. “Did it,” he asks, carefully.

“Did it what?”

“Mean nothing?”

“Um.” Is Kent imagining it, or are the tips of Jack’s ears turning pink?

Fuck it, Kent thinks, because his words never cooperate with him anyway.

He leans over the gear shift, close enough to see the way Jack’s eyelashes curve up. “Is this okay?”

“What,” Jack says again. “Is what okay?” Jack licks his lips, a tiny, probably unconscious gesture, but Kent’s eyes flick down to follow the movement, and when they flick back up, Jack’s eyes are wide and dark.

“C’mon, Zimms,” Kent says, and cringes to hear his desperation and hope, palpable in his voice. “Let me kiss you for real this time.”

“Yes,” Jack breathes, and he closes the distance between them, and they're kissing. It’s closed-mouth and chaste at first, but then Jack makes a small noise in the back of his throat and parts his lips and Kent’s licking into his mouth and it’s. It’s amazing. Despite the cold outside, Jack’s lips are warm and pliable, and when Kent sucks on Jack’s lower lip, Jack _moans_. Jack’s hand is on Kent’s hip where his shirt is rucked up, his fingers snaking up against Kent’s abs, and Kent feels spikes of pleasure emanating from the point of contact and pooling in his gut.

Jack pulls back a centimeter, turns his head a little, and Kent follows, trailing kisses down Jack’s jaw and neck. He can feel Jack’s pulse, now, and he sucks on it, relishing in the way Jack tips his head back when his teeth graze the sensitive skin there. Jack's heart is beating like crazy under Kent's mouth.

“Kenny,” Jack says, his voice low and rough, and Kent feels a thrill that _he_ made Jack sound like this. “Are you - are you just doing this because you feel bad for me?”

“Oh my god, no,” Kent says, his lips moving against Jack's neck, a little breathless himself. “You - fuck, Zimms, you’re so hot, holy shit.”

"Oh," Jack whispers. Kent pulls back an inch, sees Jack gazing down at him with an indecipherable expression.

“I think you should go,” Jack says, and the hurt must show on Kent’s face because Jack adds, “no, no, I mean. My billet mom’s making lunch, and we’re out in public, and. Uh. I’m not saying that I don’t want this to, um. Continue.” Jack’s blushing hard, now, and Kent thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah, Zimms, I get it. Say hi to Cecile for me. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Kent leans back, but he can’t resist ruffling Jack’s hair. Kent didn’t think it was possible, but Jack flushes even more.

“Or, uh. You could come over tonight? We could. We could play some Mario Kart.”

Despite his slightly frozen hair, Kent feels warm from his head to his toes. “Sure, Zimms,” he says. He drops down out of the truck, deftly avoiding a snowdrift, but before he closes the door, he leans back in. “You know, Jack, you don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders.”

“I know,” Jack says, mouth quirking up into a hint of that crooked smile Kent loves so much, and Kent feels impossibly light.

“I just have to carry Canada.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://hockeylesbians.tumblr.com)!


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